The Green Helmet and Other Poems. William Butler Yeats

it were anything but merely voice!”

      The No King cried who after that was King,

      Because he had not heard of anything

      That balanced with a word is more than noise;

      Yet Old Romance being kind, let him prevail

      Somewhere or somehow that I have forgot,

      Though he’d but cannon – Whereas we that had thought

      To have lit upon as clean and sweet a tale

      Have been defeated by that pledge you gave

      In momentary anger long ago;

      And I that have not your faith, how shall I know

      That in the blinding light beyond the grave

      We’ll find so good a thing as that we have lost?

      The hourly kindness, the day’s common speech,

      The habitual content of each with each

      When neither soul nor body has been crossed.

      THE COLD HEAVEN

      Suddenly I saw the cold and rook delighting Heaven

      That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,

      And thereupon imagination and heart were driven

      So wild, that every casual thought of that and this

      Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season

      With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;

      And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason,

      Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,

      Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken,

      Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent

      Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken

      By the injustice of the skies for punishment?

      PEACE

      Ah, that Time could touch a form

      That could show what Homer’s age

      Bred to be a hero’s wage.

      “Were not all her life but storm,

      Would not painters paint a form

      Of such noble lines” I said.

      “Such a delicate high head,

      So much sternness and such charm,

      Till they had changed us to like strength?”

      Ah, but peace that comes at length,

      Came when Time had touched her form.

      AGAINST UNWORTHY PRAISE

      O heart, be at peace, because

      Nor knave nor dolt can break

      What’s not for their applause,

      Being for a woman’s sake.

      Enough if the work has seemed,

      So did she your strength renew,

      A dream that a lion had dreamed

      Till the wilderness cried aloud,

      A secret between you two,

      Between the proud and the proud.

      What, still you would have their praise!

      But here’s a haughtier text,

      The labyrinth of her days

      That her own strangeness perplexed;

      And how what her dreaming gave

      Earned slander, ingratitude,

      From self-same dolt and knave;

      Aye, and worse wrong than these.

      Yet she, singing upon her road,

      Half lion, half child, is at peace.

      THE FASCINATION OF WHAT’S DIFFICULT

      The fascination of what’s difficult

      Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent

      Spontaneous joy and natural content

      Out of my heart. There’s something ails our colt

      That must, as if it had not holy blood,

      Nor on an Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,

      Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt

      As though it dragged road metal. My curse on plays

      That have to be set up in fifty ways,

      On the day’s war with every knave and dolt,

      Theatre business, management of men.

      I swear before the dawn comes round again

      I’ll find the stable and pull out the bolt.

      A DRINKING SONG

      Wine comes in at the mouth

      And love comes in at the eye;

      That’s all we shall know for truth

      Before we grow old and die.

      I lift the glass to my mouth,

      I look at you, and I sigh.

      THE COMING OF WISDOM WITH TIME

      Though leaves are many, the root is one;

      Through all the lying days of my youth

      I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;

      Now I may wither into the truth.

      ON HEARING THAT THE STUDENTS OF OUR NEW UNIVERSITY HAVE JOINED THE ANCIENT ORDER OF HIBERNIANS AND THE AGITATION AGAINST IMMORAL LITERATURE

      Where, where but here have Pride and Truth,

      That long to give themselves for wage,

      To shake their wicked sides at youth

      Restraining reckless middle-age.

      TO A POET, WHO WOULD HAVE ME PRAISE CERTAIN BAD POETS, IMITATORS OF HIS AND MINE

      You say, as I have often given tongue

      In praise of what another’s said or sung,

      ’Twere politic to do the like by these;

      But where’s the wild dog that has praised his fleas?

      THE ATTACK ON THE “PLAY BOY”

      Once, when midnight smote the air,

      Eunuchs ran through Hell and met

      Round about Hell’s gate, to stare

      At great Juan riding by,

      And like these to rail and sweat,

      Maddened by that sinewy thigh.

      A LYRIC FROM AN UNPUBLISHED PLAY

      “Put off that mask of burning gold

      With emerald eyes.”

      “O no, my dear, you make so bold

      To find if hearts be wild and wise,

      And yet not cold.”

      “I would but find what’s there to find,

      Love or deceit.”